Suicide Special
by Wingtip
Summary: All Tim knows is that when he went to bed last night, there was no gun, and when he wakes up this morning, it's there, under his pillow, as if left by some murderous Tooth Fairy.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** Everything canon belongs to S.E. Hinton

 **Title:** Suicide Special

 **Summary:** All Tim knows is that when he went to bed last night, there was no gun, and when he wakes up this morning, it's there, under his pillow, as if left by some murderous toothfairy.

 **Rating:** Strong T.

 **Notes:** Thanks for taking the time to read! Please drop a review!

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 **Prologue**

Tim's not quite sure who to blame for this mess.

Hell, he's not even sure what kind of mess he's in. All Tim knows is that when he went to bed last night, there was no gun, and when he wakes up this morning, it's there, under his pillow, as if left by some murderous toothfairy.

All in all, not the best situation to be in, he muses, staring at the small handgun he's sure he's never seen before in his life. He goes to pick it up, thinks better of it, and walks to his closet. He rifles around before finding anything even remotely suitable, and returns to his bed with a pair of old, blue, boxers. Wrapping his hand, careful about his fingers especially, in the boxers, he lifts the rifle up to examine it.

 _How the hell did I not wake up?_ True, eventually he did wake up due to the bulky, hard shape beneath his admittedly flimsy pillow, but he would have thought it would wake him when whatever shit-stain who did this put it there.

He checks the barrel, and, well, fuck. Either the owner of this gun didn't know how to clean it properly, or it had been fired recently, and shoved beneath his pillow soon after. _Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck_.

Tim curses under his breath, a barrage of insults so colorful and creative it may even raise Curly's eyebrows. Hell, he doesn't even know if half of what he's saying are actual words, or just strings of dirty-sounding syllables.

But that won't due.

He sets the gun, still wrapped in the boxers, back down where it was, and rummages around his room before finding something to put it in. It's an old shoe box that Angela and Curly painted for him for his birthday one year, when they had less money than the non existent amount they usually had. It was green and black and had his name in blocky letters, and inside they'd put some old family pictures and notes and five dollars. Tim has since moved the pictures and notes to a nicer box they swiped for him for his most recent birthday, and he spent the five dollars on dinner and a movie for a girl who, quite frankly, wasn't worth it. Even so he held onto the box, for sentimentality if nothing else, not that he'd ever admit that. Maybe some part of him always knew the day would come when a crazed madman put a gun beneath his pillow.

Of course, now that he's got the gun in the box, he doesn't know what to do with it.

If someone is framing him, he can't leave it here. The police will tear through, find it recently fired and wrapped in his underwear, and it doesn't matter what he says, they're sure as shit not gonna believe it just magically turned up there. After all, an excuse to lock him up is probably what every damn cop in Tulsa is waiting for.

But he can't exactly carry it around with him- at twelve and ten, Curly and Angela's taste in paint wasn't exactly subtle and nobody is gonna ignore him walking around with a lime green shoe box. And even if he finds something else to keep it in, he ain't gonna look any less conspicuous, walking around with it.

But if he can't leave it, and he sure as hell can't take it with him, that leaves one option.

He's gotta ditch it.

Of course, it ain't that simple; Tim's seen some things, but magical guns that appear and disappear like air ain't something he believes. Somebody put it there, and he's guessing their reason was less than upstanding. And when he finds out who it is, he's gonna knock every single one of their teeth out, then shove em down their throat so they can choke on em.

First things first, he's gotta find a different container for it. One without his name on it in big, black letters. Then he can find a temporary place to ditch it just until he figures things out.

He gets ready quickly and nervously, checking over his shoulder as he showers and dresses and greases his hair. Part of him feels like he ought to stop wasting time, part of him knows that acting and looking normal is the only way to sell this. He uses some cologne; another gift Angela didn't pay for, and, when he feels like himself, he turns to face the box.

He picks it up carefully, almost like he's afraid it'll go off. He realizes then he doesn't know if the gun has any bullets, but hell if he can check without getting his fingerprints on it. He listens at the door before stepping into the hallway. Silence is a dead giveaway that nobody is home. It's all but scientific fact that two or more Shepherds in the same building will be fighting loudly as soon as they realize the other is there. And, given it's ten in the morning, his mother and stepfather will probably be at work, and his siblings, well… He doesn't know where Curly is, but he's willing to bet it isn't school, and Angela is likely off playing house with her dopey husband.

He takes the box down to the kitchen, finds a garbage bag, and, as carefully as he can, moves the boxer-wrapped gun from the box to the bag. He double-knots it, grabs his keys, and carries it carefully outside. Thankfully, he's got Michael's car for as long as Michael is in jail, which, given his track record, could be some time. He places the bag on the passenger seat, starts the car, and then wonders where the hell he's gonna go.

He rules out the police pretty quick. His friends are next- the ones he trusts he doesn't want too wrapped up in things, and the others, well… somebody got that thing under his pillow. Buck's is a no-go. He shakes his head. He's just gotta hide it, temporarily. A few hours at best, a few days or a week at worse. Then he'll find some way to get rid of it more permanently.

He thinks of a place pretty quick; about a mile outside of town there's this old building that used to be a rest station for the pony express or some shit like that. For the past hundred some-odd years, it hasn't really had a legal use. It's too known as a good hideout to actually _be_ a good hideout, but for a short stint…

He drives there quickly, checking like a madman in the mirror to make sure he ain't being followed. Unless the devil himself is after him, he makes it out of town and to the field the building is in okay.

The station is old and crumbling, the inside littered with beer cans and broken bottles, cigarette butts and, he notes with both mild disgust and mild admiration, a girl's panties. The floor is wood, but missing large pieces. He kicks at the exposed dirt- not as pliable as he'd hoped, but better than ditching it outside.

He finds a loose board by the front of building, in a shady spot to the left of the door frame, the door stolen for a bonfire years ago. He carefully pulls out the cheap, ancient nails holding it down and begins to work on digging a small, but deep, hole. His nails all crack in the process and he regularly has to break to scrape caked dirt off his fingers. Eventually the earth gets damp, and it's easier going.

When it's deep enough, he places the bag inside and covers it again- keeping the wet dirt at the bottom. He puts the boards back and slides the nails in; when one gets stuck he leans his knee on it, slowly shifting his weight until it sinks in. It hurts like a bitch, but it works. He spreads the dry, displaced dirt out in a smooth layer across the floor.

That, for now, will have to do. Right now, he's gotta figure out how the gun got to his house, and whose hands he's gotta break off for putting it there.

The drive back into town is as awful as the drive up, because his mind keeps flashing back to the damn gun. By the time he gets home, he's had to stop himself twice from heading back out to double check he hid it well.

He's gotta keep his head screwed on about this.

He washes his hands thoroughly, and hears the door open and slam shut.

"Tim?"

 _Ah, fuck_.

Curly is back, and apparently wants _something_ , Tim'll guess it's money or the car or something else dumb as shit that he has no time for.

"What D'ya want?" Tim calls down. He hear Curly loudly bound up the stairs, and in the next minute he all but slams into the door frame, a wild look in his eye.

"Did you hear?" he asks breathlessly.

"Curly, I ain't got time for gossipy shit-"

"No, no, nothing like that. Hey, listen- you know Carl Kralick?"

"Should I?"

"He's a polish guy who kind of runs with the Brumley Boys? Or maybe he's Hungarian. Shit, I don't know. Married Maureen Thompson, Angela's friend who I used to go with, guess she's Maureen Kralick now, or was-"

"You said it wasn't gossipy."

"It _ain't,_ Tim. He's- somebody shot him! He's been murdered, and Maureen found the body..."

Curly's voice drones on, and Tim is only half-listening. Because for the hundredth time that day, all he can really think is _oh, fuck_.

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 **Thanks for reading! If you made it this far, please drop a review! I'm always looking to improve and hear what you think.**

 **I'm still working out the kinks with Tim's voice, but I figured if I waited till I perfected it, I'd never get this story up.**

 **Also, quick note on firearm lingo, I'm not too up-and-up on everything (i.e. the differences between rifles and guns and pistols and what not), but I'm fairly certain an inexpensive handgun was referred to as either a suicide special or Saturday night special (while I believe SNS was more popular at the time, I think Suicide Special just has a better ring to it). If you notice any inaccuracy in that (or any) regard, please let me know!**


	2. The Middle: Part One

**Disclaimer:** SE owns everything

 **Notes:** Thanks so much for the reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying this story!

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 **The Middle: Part One**

Cliff answers his door at the third knock, hair still wet, looking tired.

"We got trouble," Tim says, pushing past him into the small apartment Cliff occupies.

Cliff closes the door with a heavy sigh.

"What else is new?"

Cliff is a good second, because he's deadly in a fight, smart as hell, and is always calm. Tim had once seen a girl go off on him at Buck's, screeching and yelling, and she'd slapped Cliff so hard across the face that her nails left two trails of blood, and even then she'd kept hollering. Cliff had just lifted the girl, tossed her over his shoulder, set her down outside, shut the door, and gone to clean his face and get a beer like it never happened.

"You hear about the Kralick kid?"

"Got shot, yeah." He grabs a beer off the counter, takes a seat, and gestures for Tim to do the same, but Tim shakes his head and continues to pace.

"Someone put the gun under my damn pillow."

For a minute, he thinks he's managed to actually startle Cliff, because his brows rise and, for a while, he says nothing.

But then, it's back to business.

"It didn't wake you up?"

"Look, I woke up this morning, with it under my pillow. I wrapped it in some boxers and a bag and ditched it someplace where it'll be safe for a little while. But Cliff, what do you know about this Kralick guy? Curly says he's a Brumley?"

"Nah, he ain't. Lives on the side of town and bums around with a few of 'em, but if he was part of a gang, don't you think things'd be worse since he was shot?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You know, your sister might know more. Her pal was married to him."

"So I heard." He sighs and runs his hands over his face, "I really stepped in it, huh?"

Cliff shrugs and gestures for him to sit again, and this time, Tim does, sinking into his lumpy couch. Louisa, Cliff's girl, had thrown a blanket over it to cover up a blood stain, but like her other attempts to make the place homey, it hadn't really worked.

"You think someone's trying to frame you?"

"No police at my place yet. I got Curly there-"

"He know why?"

"Fuck, no. I told him if kids were getting shot he'd better stay in, call me if something happens."

"Bet he didn't like that."

"I don't give a shit if he did, but I'll know if police turn up."

Cliff sighs and taps his beer can.

"You'd think," he says slowly, "if someone were trying to frame you, they'd shoot someone you had motive to kill."

"Or maybe they offed Kralick and figured they'd kill two birds with one stone."

"Weird they put the gun someplace you'd find it."

"Yeah, huh."

"Got a plan?"

"Figure out who killed Kralick, find them, beat their face in and stick the damn gun up their ass."

"Good plan."

"Listen, can you check around? See if this kid had any enemies?"

"I'll try, but we don't want it to look like the Shepard gang is too messed up in this."

"I know, keep it quiet. And nobody but you or me knows about this, alright? The less people who know I have the gun…"

"The better."

Tim nods, and is about to start giving him potential leads, when the phone rings.

Cliff picks it up, listens for a second, and, without a word, hands it to Tim.

"Hello?"

"Tim, yeah, hey, it's me-"

"What now, Curly?"

"Shit, man, give me a minute. Listen, man, Angela just turned up with a hoard of her friends, and Maureen is here too, and they're all crying like it was their own damn husband got shot, and Angela is saying I should get you here because they wanna feel protected or some shit and I really don't know what the hell is going on, but they're driving me crazy, man, and-"

"Alright, alright. I'll be over soon. Hold your damn horses and _keep them there_ , clear?"

"Well I can't seem to get rid of 'em, can I?"

Tim hangs up.

"I gotta go. You'll look into it?"

"Yeah, I'll do what I can, keep it on the low-down."

Tim nods, and heads out. He and Cliff have never been the kind of friends who are gonna sit around and gossip and exchange small talk. When Cliff and Louisa decided to get hitched, Tim only found out when Cliff said, as they were driving to a rumble, to try and keep out of fights after this one, because Louisa probably didn't want him all bruised for their wedding.

He makes it back home and they're two cars-neither that he recognizes, already parked outside. Inside, the situation is as bad as Curly described it. He counts eight girls in total. They're all circling one chick, who he figures is Maureen. She's mousy and wearing this green dress, which is big and frumpy and covers her arms, and Angela is right beside her, holding her hand and muttering something.

Angela looks up when Tim walks in, and says, "Finally, we're all so worried.". But when Tim gestures with his chin, trying to get her aside, she gives him a stubborn look and shakes her head. Tim sighs. Their mom likes to say that she's part mule, and Tim learned long ago that working around her was easier than arguing.

He manages to catch the eye of one of her friends he actually doesn't mind too much, Irene. She's standing a bit further back, and so no one really notices when she follows Tim to the kitchen.

"What the hell happened?"

Irene sighs and glances through the doorway to the congregation of girls.

"Come on, Kid," he says, keeping his voice as soft as he can make it. The look she gives him when he calls her _kid_ \- half annoyed, half blushing, is why the nickname has stuck with her far past her kiddy years.

"Honestly, all I know is what Angela told us on the ride over."

"That's more than I know right now."

She still looks reluctant. She bites her lip a little, a bad habit which has resulted in this little spot on her bottom lip always being a bit chapped. Her mouth always looks like she's just had a popsicle because of it- pink and shiny and with that chapped spot.

"Angela really didn't tell you anything? I figured she'd go to you first."

When he shakes his head, she quirks one of her full brows, and she sighs.

"Well, the way she tells it, her and Maureen got off work the other night pretty late. Maureen didn't wanna try walking or catching a ride alone, especially with how far she lives and all, so they stayed the night at Angela's, since her husband is- god, I don't know. Texas, I think?"

"Why didn't they call Carl?"

"He doesn't have a car. I mean, he's a dirt-poor, no one even knows if he's legally here, changes jobs every few months, what's he gonna do?"

"So they stayed at Angela's all night?"

"Yeah, and Angela said they didn't get too much sleep, so they decided to walk over to Maureen's because she has this concealer she swears by to cover dark circles. And they walked in and called out to Carl. He didn't answer, and they didn't think too much of it, because he's always changing jobs so Maureen never knows his schedule. But Angela said they heard the back door slam open and shut with the wind, which is odd, because Carl locks it at night and when he's at work and is real careful about that. So they went to the kitchen to check and- and he was there, Angela said, lying on the ground like- like- she said he was like a snow angel, all sprawled out in blood…"

She shudders and stops talking. Tim sighs.

"They got any idea who did it?"

"I don't think so. They've been talking to police the past hour before calling us, giving statements, so if they knew, wouldn't they have told 'em? God, the whole force would be after him, no?"

"For a dirt-poor immigrant? Yeah, they'd send maybe half, maybe even a whole squad car." he scoffs, but stops himself when he sees the sad look on her face.

"Look, kid, thanks. I've gotta be around, I don't like poor folks getting shot dead in their homes. But if they bring 'em in or police turn up… find me, okay?"

Irene nods, and goes back out to the girls. His eyes meet Angela's as he looks in on their gathering, and she has this intensity to her face he's never seen before, but in a second she's back to comforting Maureen.

Tim heads upstairs to find Curly, hiding in his room. It used to be Angela's, till she moved out, and he hasn't fully re-decorated, which is the second reason Curly's never brought a girl home. The first being his inability to speak to girls, but that's another matter.

"Listen, I gotta run. Something bout this Kralick thing don't sit right with me and I'm gonna look into it." He see's Curly jump up- "And no, you _can't_ come. Stay here and make yourself known, so the girls feel safe."

"Come on, Tim, they're insane!"

"Look, just keep an eye on 'em. Bunch a good looking broads, can't be too bad."

Curly looks like he wants to protest, but just frowns and lumbers down the stairs after him.

"I'm heading out. Curly'll be here if you need anything." He addresses most of this to Angela, but his eyes flash to Irene's, and she gives a minuscule nod of her head.

First place he drives is to Buck's. Mostly because he has no idea where the fuck to start, but also because it's a good place to go when you're clueless. Enough people congregate there throughout the day that gossip spreads, and if someone doesn't know something, they know someone who does.

Today there's some big horses races out in Arizona, so there seem to be plenty of people. The door is never locked, and inside, a group of boys are huddled by a radio. A smaller group are gathered round a table, playing poker for matchsticks. One or two girls, with eye makeup that makes them look sleepy, despite it not being noon yet, glance up at him and give him these soft, hazy smiles, but today ain't the day to reciprocate.

He walks to the bar Buck had installed, where the man himself is wiping down glasses. Tim wonders what kind of life you gotta live, for your house to be full of strangers so much you put in a damn bar, but just takes a seat.

"Cliff been around today?" he asks. Him and Cliff have a system when they wanna keep the gang out of things. Since it don't take a genius to know they work together, you have to double check at every corner.

"Not that I've seen. Probably with that chick of his." Buck says this as if he hasn't tried to get with _that chick of his_ multiple times.

Tim asks for a beer and bides his time.

"You ain't normally a day drinker," Buck muses, pretending he isn't nosy.

Tim shakes his head and looks up.

"You hear about the Kralick kid?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Shit, you ain't bugged by the fact that a guy you never heard of got shot?"

"It bugs me less than if some guy I had heard of did."

"Not if I heard of him for the wrong reason. I mean, a guy like you or me get's shot- well, somebody had it out for us, makes sense. I never heard of this Kralick guy bugging anyone." He see's Bucks face scrunch, as if he's trying to put it together, and Tim quickly covers himself. "Besides, his wife was a pal of Angela's, and now my house is swarming with girls."

Buck scoffs.

"Well, way I've been hearing round here, Kralick wasn't exactly a nice guy. Nothing too terrible about him, but nobody who knew him seems to miss him." Buck puts the glass down and points out a lanky boy with red hair, "Peter there says they worked together at the bar that used to be Mike's these past few weeks, guy hasn't been raking in the tips, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah," Tim says. He drops some change on the counter and downs the last of his beer.

"You coming around tonight? More races this evening, you could win big."

"We'll see." Tim says, and he heads out.

He likes Mike's bar- and he still thinks of it like that, rather than whatever it is now. He likes the new owner okay enough. It's a quiet place, good for thinking, and Ben, who took over, is careful to keep it clean. It ain't too far from the diner Angela and Maureen work at, so when Ben is there, he sometimes gives 'em a ride home, and according to her, never tried to pull anything.

But when he gets there, he runs into Cliff on his way out.

"Any news?"

"Guy working there said Carl wasn't too nice, but that ain't news. Turns out, though, that gun that's got you all tied up?"

"What about it?"

"Probably Kralick's."

Tim sighs.

"No shit."

"And apparently, it's been missing longer than a night. Kralick came in bitching about it."

"God damn. Any idea where he got the gun?"

"Nah. And ain't nobody got an idea of who'd wanna bother shooting him."

"Checked Bucks, no leads there."

The lean against the hoods of their respective cars.

"I still don't get how you didn't wake up. What the hell were you up to, last night?"

"Went to the diner for dinner pretty late. Got eggs. Went home and hit the hay. I'd been working on our little across-the-border deal all day."

Cliff nods slowly.

"The dinner Angela works at?"

"Usual table and all."

Cliff sighs.

"Jeez, man, have you gotten yourself into some shit."

"Tell me about it," Tim mutters.

With no leads, they drive the only place they're liable to get any, which happens to be Tim's house.

The girls are all still there, though he's been informed Maureen is resting up in Curly's room. Curly don't seem to pleased about this. Irene shoots him a worried look and is picking at the hem of her dress.

"Angela, we gotta talk," Tim says, and Angela is about to say something, when there's a knock at the door.

Angela gives him a little grin and prances to the door, but that grin falls the minute she opens it.

The man standing there flips out a badge and smiles in what he probably hopes is a kind, comforting way.

"I'm detective Ray Carlisle. I'd like to speak to you and your friend, please."

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 **Thanks for reading! If you liked it, hated it, felt ambivalent towards it, please leave a review! Any review helps me improve!**


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